


the rest may not be sung

by ImpishTubist



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Pining, Sex in the Bentley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:26:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23219971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: Crowley saves Aziraphale’s life and his books. Aziraphale expresses his gratitude.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 143





	the rest may not be sung

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place immediately after the church scene in episode 3. Title comes from Queen’s “Some Day One Day”. Beta’d by the wonderful Kat.

The thing was, Aziraphale knew Crowley was in love with him. 

It had been apparent from the start, from the very moment Aziraphale had admitted that he had given away his flaming sword. The wave of utter adoration and  _ love  _ that burst out of Crowley had nearly knocked Aziraphale from the wall. It had only grown stronger in the millennia since, despite how precarious their association had been at the start. They were agents working for opposing forces, after all.  _ Enemies  _ was the kindest word that could describe their relationship at the beginning. Crowley had personally been responsible for half a dozen of Aziraphale's discorporations over the years, and Aziraphale had killed the demon in turn seven times. 

Throughout it all, though, Crowley had loved him. Crowley loved him still. And there wasn't a damned thing Aziraphale could do about it. He couldn't - he couldn't even  _ contemplate  _ reciprocation. It would mean destruction for them both if they were found out, an end to both of their lives. Aziraphale wouldn't allow it. 

But this--what was he supposed to do with  _ this _ ? Crowley, walking on consecrated ground for him, heedless of his burning feet. Crowley, using a demonic miracle someone was surely going to question him about in order to save Aziraphale’s life. Crowley, saving the  _ books _ . This was far beyond anything Crowley had ever done for him before.

Aziraphale cleared his throat and broke the silence in the car. "Should I say thank you?"

Crowley grunted.

"Better not," he said gruffly.

“Right.”

Aziraphale settled back in his seat and tried to force his attention to his surroundings. But it was the middle of the night, the middle of a blackout, and there was nothing to see. Crowley kept the car’s headlights turned off, and was navigating by his own demonic senses alone. There was nothing for Aziraphale to  _ do  _ but focus on Crowley--the sound of his breathing, the rustle of his clothing, the scent of his aftershave, and why was he even  _ wearing  _ aftershave? It wasn’t necessary, and was wholly distracting. 

_ He saved my books.  _ Books that meant nothing to Crowley, but he’d saved them because they meant everything to Aziraphale.  _ He saved my books, why did he have to go and save my books?  _

Because so far he had been able to ignore Crowley’s adoration over the centuries, had been able to pretend that he was oblivious to the demon’s affections. Even when Crowley had appeared in the Bastille and saved Aziraphale from certain discorporation, Aziraphae had been able to convince himself that it meant nothing. It was strictly business. It would put the Arrangement in serious jeopardy should one of them get discorporated, that was all. It couldn’t mean anything more than that.

But this--this was too much. A demon walking on consecrated ground for an angel? Saving the books of prophecy, because to Aziraphale they were invaluable? Even Aziraphale couldn’t turn a blind eye to that.

“How did you find me?” he asked quietly, breaking the silence again. He twisted his hands together, then unclenched his fingers and wiped clammy palms on his thighs. Had his mouth always gone this dry around Crowley, and he’d simply forgotten about it in the demon’s decades-long absence?

“I have my ways,” Crowley said, with a tone of finality that indicated he wasn’t going to discuss it further.

“Well, thank--” Aziraphale cut himself off as Crowley shot him a warning look. He settled on murmuring, “I certainly hope this didn’t cause too much of an inconvenience for you.” 

“Just don’t make a habit of it,” Crowley said gruffly. “Getting double-crossed by Nazis, I mean. I can’t rescue you every bloody time, angel.” 

Yes, he would. No matter how many times Aziraphale got himself into trouble, no matter how dire the situation, no matter if it meant risking his own destruction--Crowley would always come for him.

_ He saved my books _ , Aziraphale thought for the hundredth time, still dizzy with the knowledge.  _ He saved my books. He didn’t have to do that, and it didn’t occur to him not to. How can I tell him what this means to me?  _

_ Let him love you _ , a traitorous voice whispered at the back of his mind, and he shoved it away. 

No. He couldn't thank Crowley. He couldn't let Crowley love him. But he could give Crowley this. Just the once. 

Aziraphale reached over and tentatively settled a hand on Crowley's leg. A muscle jumped in Crowley's thigh, but otherwise he didn't react. Aziraphale left his hand there for several moments, stroking a thumb back and forth across the fabric. They hit a pothole in the road, and Aziraphale used the excuse of the resulting jostle to let his hand settle higher on Crowley's leg. 

Crowley kept his eyes fixed on the road, his hands so tight on the steering wheel that his knuckles were white. Aziraphale slid his hand to the inside of Crowley's leg, and Crowley made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. 

"Angel." Crowley's voice was thin and strained. "What are you doing?" 

"Just drive, my dear," Aziraphale murmured. He slid his fingers higher still, until the edge of his hand rested in the hot crease of Crowley’s thigh. His knuckles brushed the bulge in Crowley’s trousers, and Crowley let out a pained noise. 

“Pull over,” Aziraphale said gently, and Crowley wrenched the Bentley to the side of the road. He shut off the car. The silence that descended was oppressive. Aziraphale swallowed hard, and it seemed to him that it sounded like a gunshot in the quiet. 

“I didn’t do it for this.” Crowley’s chest was heaving. He kept his hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead. He shifted minutely, and Aziraphale’s fingers brushed him again. “Angel, I promise that I didn’t.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said, because Crowley would never ask for anything more than Aziraphale was willing to give, and Aziraphale had never once in six thousand years indicated that he was willing to give this. “Tell me to stop, and I will, my dear.” 

Crowley wasn’t strong enough for that. He swallowed, and slowly unclenched his hands from the wheel. He lowered them to his lap, settling them flat on his thighs. He drew a breath. Then, he covered Aziraphale’s hand with one of his own, and pressed it against his erection. 

Aziraphale cupped him through his trousers, and Crowley whined low in the back of his throat. 

“Angel,” he hissed, “you’ve no idea how long--”

He cut himself off. Aziraphale squeezed gently, and Crowley’s hips jerked. 

“I do,” he breathed. “Oh, Crowley. I know precisely how long you’ve wanted this.” 

He snapped his fingers, and suddenly there was a large gap between Crowley’s seat and the steering wheel. Enough space for Aziraphale to slide into and go to his knees. He hadn’t done this in some decades, but it wasn’t something one forgot how to do. He smoothed his hands up Crowley’s thighs, feeling the wiry muscles under the fabric of his trousers. Crowley spread his legs as much as the confined space would allow, letting his knees fall open, and Aziraphale murmured, “Thank you, dear.”

He made quick work of Crowley’s belt, unfastened and unzipped his trousers, and drew him out. Aziraphale made an involuntary appreciative noise, and Crowley let out a breathless huff. 

“Take it it’s to your liking, angel?” Crowley's voice sounded strained, reaching for humor and falling short.

“Delectable,” Aziraphale murmured, and then he leaned forward to lick the head. 

Crowley’s hips bucked. Aziraphale cupped his hipbones, dug his thumbs into the hollows there, and pressed him back firmly into the seat. He held Crowley in place with one hand, and moved the other back to his cock. He stroked it, base to tip, a long, torturous pull. And again, and again, until Crowley was leaking and breathing heavily through his nose and blessing under his breath.

Aziraphale lowered his head, and took the length of Crowley into his mouth. 

There was a soft  _ thud  _ as the back of Crowley’s head hit his seat, and he groaned, “ _ Aziraphale _ .” 

Aziraphale hummed, which made Crowley grab the door handle so hard that Aziraphale was certain he would break it clean off. He drew back slowly, centimeter by centimeter, and pulled off with a  _ pop  _ before diving back in again. 

Time compressed. There was only this moment--the slide of Aziraphale’s mouth on Crowley, Crowley’s shuddering breaths, the scrabble of his fingers as he sought purchase from the door, the seat, the ceiling. His spine arched. He panted. His hips jerked in abortive movements as he tried desperately to hold himself in check, tried not to sink his fingers in Aziraphale’s hair and fuck his mouth mercilessly.

As he swirled his tongue around the head and Crowley let out a breathless sob, Aziraphale caught himself thinking that might be a nice thing to try another time. He banished the thought, and distracted himself by swallowing Crowley to the root.

There were advantages to inhaling as a purely aesthetic exercise. Crowley smelled of sweat and musk and soap, so completely  _ human  _ that it was disarming. Aziraphale buried his nose in the tight curls at the base of his cock and breathed, and  _ goodness _ , that was intoxicating. One could get addicted to that. 

Trembling fingers touched his cheek. Aziraphale looked up, and met Crowley’s stare. He had no idea when Crowley had shed his sunglasses, and the sight of his uncovered eyes, pupils blown wide with desire, sent a shock through him. 

_ Focus _ , he scolded himself. He lowered his gaze and closed his eyes, swallowing once, twice, and Crowley  _ howled _ . He sank the fingers of one hand into Aziraphale’s shoulder and pressed the other against the ceiling, arching off the seat as much as Aziraphale would allow, and came in pulses. 

Aziraphale kept swallowing, savoring the bitter taste of Crowley’s spend. He laved at Crowley, catching every last drop, and tucked him away. Only then did Aziraphale dare to look up at him again.

Crowley’s thin chest heaved. He’d lost his hat at some point, and his hair was a disaster. A sheen of sweat covered his face and neck, and the thin triangle of skin where the top button of his shirt was undone. His lips were bright red, like he’d been gnawing at them, and the knowledge hit Aziraphale like a sledgehammer. 

_ I did this. _

Crowley was utterly  _ wrecked _ , and Aziraphale had done that. He knew now what Crowley looked like when he was utterly debauched, how he tasted, the sounds that spilled from his lips as he chased his pleasure. That knowledge was a blessing as much as it was an agony--Aziraphale now knew answers to questions he had wondered for centuries, but this could never happen again.

Aziraphale clambered over Crowley and back into his seat. He snapped his fingers, and Crowley’s seat returned to its original position. He noticed then that he was painfully hard in his own trousers, and squirmed.  _ Damn it _ . He hadn’t made an effort today, but evidently his corporation had had other ideas while he was tending to Crowley.

“D’you…” Crowley trailed off. His hand twitched in Aziraphale’s direction. “I could--”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “Thank you, dear. It will go away on its own.” 

“Angel…” Crowley reached for him. Aziraphale caught his fingers, kissed them, and released him.

“Thank you for saving the books,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley made a wounded noise. “But this can’t happen again. I just wanted you to know...that I’m very grateful.”

“‘Course,” Crowley said gruffly. “Right.”

He ran his fingers through his hair, then snapped them to materialize his hat and sunglasses. 

“Home?” he asked, and Aziraphale nodded. 

“Please.” 

Crowley started the Bentley, pulled back onto the road, and drove carefully back through the debris-strewn streets to the bookshop.


End file.
